


a pain that i'm used to

by QueenOfSloths



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Developing Friendships, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Paris (City), Slow Build, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSloths/pseuds/QueenOfSloths
Summary: “You need to stop wallowing in your despair, R. It’s pathetic,” Éponine says, opening Grantaire’s windows and probably wondering how long it’s been since he last aired out the room, judging by a few wrinkles on her nose.“I’m not wallowing,” he insists. “I’m reminiscing.”“Well then, you need to stop reminiscing.”Or: Enjolras moves to Paris for work and Grantaire doesn’t take it all that well. But there’s this saying about life and lemons which in Grantaire’s book goes somewhat like: ‘If life gives you lemons, whine until it makes you some lemonade, too’.As per usual — Grantaire is embarrassingly head over heels and Enjolras has no idea.





	1. i. stories of old

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am perfectly aware of the fact that most of this fandom is probably dead, but I relapsed a few months ago and it’s only getting worse, so there. The product of my addiction. Be gentle? ;)
> 
> Also it seems that I’m unable to write short fics—I was supposed to be half through the story by now, but I didn’t even manage to get past the beginning. Is there a pill for that? I’d very much like to pop it! Short story long (:P): I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (You’ll also find that I’m a die-hard Depeche Mode fan, sorry for all the unnecessary references.)

Grantaire knows exactly when his whole life went to shit.

And of course it started with Enjolras, because who else could make Grantaire both fly and die, sing and howl, laugh and agonise?

It wasn’t exactly Enjolras’ fault—or rather Enjolras didn’t intend it as something that could in any way harm Grantaire. If he ever thought about Grantaire, it was usually during their insanely long quarrels which tended to put everyone else to sleep. They always started out as meaningful debates—the value of human life, the risks of untamed freedom, you know, the deep stuff—and both Enjolras and Grantaire could go on and on for–fucking–ever only to find themselves three hours later, out of breath, clashing over things like ‘what colour is the prettiest’ or ‘which pizza topping tastes best’.

And as soon as the evenings ended, Enjolras would pass Grantaire with little to no interest, his eyes looking through Grantaire as if he were a ghost.

Grantaire sometimes expected him to stop mid–sentence only to ask Grantaire: ‘Hey, what was your name again?’

If he ever needed Grantaire’s name, that is, which Grantaire somehow doubted.

Did all of that stop Grantaire from loving Enjolras desperately—so, so much that it made him hurt in all the places he’d had no idea existed in the first place? Why would it? That was in fact partly why Grantaire never tried to bottle up his feelings.

He enjoyed them.

They made him feel alive.

There were a few things that he liked—hanging out with the gang, cigarettes, occasional one–night stands—there were things that he liked way too much for it to be healthy—casual drinking, those long runs when he would paint for days without eating or sleeping or answering his phone until all his friends would assume he’d died—and there was Enjolras.

Before Enjolras gathered them that day to announce that he was taking an internship in Paris, Grantaire had been having quite a lovely day. One of his paintings sold—to an older rich woman with seventeen cats, that’s true, but a sale’s a sale nonetheless—and he finally managed to get all the angles right on his latest piece. He showered for the first time in three days and left home, ready to eat anything other than some old cornflakes for a change. The weather was surprisingly good for so late in October, so he took a stroll through the park on his way to the bar, and when he finally came in, there was only Enjolras by the counter, so Grantaire took his sweet time teasing Golden Boy on his pinkish drink with a straw.

How could he be so happy then, so relaxed? If he’d had even the slightest idea what was about to come...

“I’ve taken Lamarque up on his offer of an internship in Paris,” Enjolras said, his expression serious, but not exactly concerned.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac nodded like there was nothing new or alarming about this information, the rest of them shouted loud congratulations towards Enjolras, and Grantaire found himself gasping for air, eyes wide open in shock, his right hand tightening around the bottle of beer as though he’d fall if he let go of it.

He barely remembered the following weeks, he just knew—one day he’d enter the bar and wouldn’t find Enjolras there. Suffocating on the mere thought of it, he stopped hanging out with the gang whatsoever.

And when November came—cold, grey, depressing—Enjolras was gone. And with him all the things that kept Grantaire grounded.

\---

“You need to stop wallowing in your despair, R. It’s pathetic,” Éponine says, opening Grantaire’s windows and probably wondering how long it’s been since he last aired out the room, judging by a few wrinkles on her nose.

“I’m not wallowing,” he insists. “I’m reminiscing.”

“Well then, you need to stop reminiscing.” There’s a smile lurking in the corners of her lips, but she does her best to conceal it. “Go out, eat some food, meet some people, live your fucking life. And if you dare tell me some dog’s shit like ‘there’s no life without him’, I’m going to beat you to death with my fucking purse, I swear to all the gods. And there truly will be no life for you without him, you poor bastard.”

Grantaire can’t help it—he grins. He’s always been game for Ép’s tough love routine.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he tells her. “Who’d listen to your endless rants on Pontmercy’s stupidity, huh?”

Éponine gives him a wry smile, and Grantaire knows he probably deserved that. There’s always something heart–breaking about the way her eyes brighten just for a split second and then dim with sorrow every time someone mentions the idiot that is Marius Pontmercy.

“R, I’m serious.” And the way she presses her lips together indicates that she, indeed, is. Very serious. “If you don’t want me to rant on your stupidity for a change, you’ll shower and get dressed, and then accompany me to a dinner thrown by none other than C-bros.”

Oh great. That is what he needs right now—Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking about how happy Enjolras is.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“No, you won’t. Go shower.”

“You like me miserable, don’t you?” Grantaire murmurs, purposely bordering on cruel. “It puts your own life into perspective.”

“R, you’re one of the few people in the world who truly give a shit about my Marius drama, don’t pretend to be vicious now, it really doesn’t suit you and it most certainly won’t grant you a ‘get–out–of–dinner–free’ card. Go shower.”

He feels a slight urge to argue tingling inside his chest, but it passes as soon as he blinks. He hasn’t really argued with anyone since Enjolras left, like him going away somehow sucked all the fun from disagreeing with people and contradicting their ideas.

He sighs and grabs a towel from a pile of clean laundry that has been lying in the armchair for a week now.

“I’ll be ready in ten,” he promises Éponine, acknowledging his defeat.

Who knows, it might actually do him some good. And if not—Combeferre is famous for his impressive collection of alcohols from all around the world. And there’s no pain that cannot be eased by a bottle of Russian vodka, Grantaire knows it for a fact.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and dripping water all over the floor, Éponine is busy typing something furiously on her phone. Grantaire raises a brow, waiting for her to spill.

“I’m too fucking tired of you guys lacking an arm to cry on, I have my own problems, thank you very much,” she hisses, not really explaining anything, but her expression goes soft, almost caring. “Combeferre,” she adds when Grantaire refuses to move and keeps staring at her enquiringly. “He’s asking me now, if we could eat ice–cream and watch ‘Out of Africa’ instead of getting seriously pissed and gossiping about Joly and Bossuet’s shared girlfriend.”

“Terrible, terrible idea,” he admits, thinking about young Robert Redford and the uncanny resemblance between him and a certain gentleman inhabiting that one hollow place in Grantaire’s heart. “I vote for getting pissed.”

“I’m more interested in this Musichetta business, but I won’t oppose to some whisky while we’re on that,” Éponine says, half–smiling. “Get dressed, R, or I’ll drag you out as God made you.”

And she would, Grantaire doesn’t doubt it for a second.

He dives into the pile of laundry and finds his favourite jeans and a T–shirt with an image of melting icecaps on it. He bought it entirely with the purpose of prompting Enjolras to effuse about the importance of stopping the climate change before it’s too late.

(And he did. Of course he did. Enjolras was so easy to manipulate into never–ending speeches.)

He goes back to the bathroom and tries to put on the clothes as fast as he can to please Ép, and while doing so he bangs his head against the upper shelf with a loud, blunt sound.

“Are you going to be okay?” Éponine cries from the living room, and she sounds just a tad too invested in the question to be asking solely about his inevitable bump.

“I think so,” he answers, rubbing the back of his head and reappearing in the living room. “It may need some ice, though, if you’d be so kind...,” he teases.

Éponine rolls her eyes at him.

“I meant the Enjolras thing, you dimwit.”

“I know what you meant,” Grantaire admits, blowing her a kiss. “I stand by my answer. I will be okay, truly. Not today maybe, but some day. I miss him terribly.”

“I know you do, R. We all miss him. Oblivious as he was, I kind of liked the dumbass.”

“You keep calling him that. It’s not his fault I’m all butterflies and rainbows whenever I think of him, you know.”

“It’s no one’s fault, R,” Ép sighs. “And if I were to blame someone, I’d blame both of you equally. It’s not like you didn’t goad him. And did he ever do something to put a stop to it? He loved antagonising you and it felt sexual, that’s why we never bothered to intervene. You reckon any of us liked witnessing your ongoing foreplay? Except Courfeyrac maybe, I’m sure he’d have nothing against watching you go all the way. Hell, he’d probably be cheering.” Grantaire tries to fight a sudden blush and fails miserably. “Now please put on your jacket and let’s go! There’s nothing you can do about his decision now, except maybe moving to Paris yourself and then following him like an unhappy annoying duckling. Hurry up, before Combeferre has a chance to talk more people into watching this fucking sob story about killing lions together.”

\---

At Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s they manage to stay clear of the sensitive subject for a total of forty three minutes and seventeen seconds—not that Grantaire’s counting. But then they turn on TV, and there’s a talk show host roasting this douchebaggy politician, Grantaire forgot his name—or he never really knew it, because when does he ever trouble himself with useless political trivia—and they all immediately think of how much Enjolras would love it.

It’s Courfeyrac who says it out loud—the spell is broken. Combeferre stops smiling, and Éponine takes an annoyed swig out of her bottle. 

“So I guess we’re starting to address the elephant in the room now.” And then, after yet another swig, “I’m not nearly as drunk as I want to be for that.”

“We can talk about him, you know,” Combeferre says quietly, aiming for his ‘wise and indifferent’ tone and missing by several lightyears. “It’s not like he’s dead.”

“He’s dead to me,” Courfeyrac mutters with a serious expression. “He didn’t return any of my last seven calls.”

“In his defence,” Combeferre offers and cracks a smile, “they all happened one after another in the middle of the night no more than...,” he looks at his watch, “eighteen hours ago.”

“Still, it might have been urgent!”

“And that would be a perfectly reasonable assumption, had the calls not been followed by a text saying: _Never mind, I finally found your hidden stash of condoms under Combeferre’s bed. What are your condoms doing under Combeferre’s bed anyway? Call me to elaborate on that as soon as you read this text_.”

Éponine lets out a really embarrassing snort, while Grantaire’s brain is busy short–circuiting.

“I have so many questions,” he cries. “First of all, why is Enjolras leaving his condoms behind? Why does he even own condoms, is he familiar with the concept of sex?” Something in his chest hurts when he dwells on that, so after a short but heated discussion with himself he decides not to. “Second, what were you doing seeking for condoms under Combeferre’s bed? Are you two having a secret affair? Is that why you moved in, Courf?”

Combeferre just rolls his eyes and the very motion is so unusual for him that Grantaire laughs.

Courfeyrac moved in not long after Enjolras had left. He claims it was all a big coincidence, since after sleeping with his landlady and having to flee from her not so subtle advances following that drunken mistake he was in dire need of a place to crash, but they all know better. Being a big softie at heart, Courfeyrac wanted to soothe Combeferre’s pain—could he split his affectionate persona, he’d move in with Grantaire, too. And then go to Paris to take care of Enjolras and his unbearable habit of pretending that he’s immune to human emotions.

“No, they were Enjolras’, okay?” Combeferre sighs. “He was giving them away at university after that sex ed talk we were all invited to participate in.”

“And when he says invited, he of course means _forced_ ,” Courfeyrac offers helpfully.

Yeah, Grantaire remembers. Suffice to say, it would be an impossible thing to forget—with Enjolras delightfully invested in making a point of balancing fun with reason, not exactly blushing but attaining just a tinge of pink across those impressive cheekbones.

“Anyway,” Combeferre says, deciding to ignore Courfeyrac, “I confiscated them after the incident.”

“Ah, the incident,” Courfeyrac says dreamingly and then... giggles. He straight up _giggles_.

“The incident?” Grantaire and Éponine ask simultaneously.

She sits up straight and puts the bottle down, which means this is probably the first moment since their arrival that she’s actually interested in their babbling.

“We don’t talk about the incident,” Combeferre says as if it’s some kind of a house rule, but he also looks like he’s about to break said rule in no time.

“You don’t talk about fight club. That’s the only thing you don’t talk about, mate,” Éponine says. “And also your job, ‘cause it’s boring as fuck, no offence.”

“None taken,” Combeferre answers, his tone indicating that at least a tad of offence was taken anyways.

Éponine just laughs at that, nudging him to continue, so he does.

“Do you remember that night after graduation?”

“Do we remember?” Éponine groans, and Grantaire can feel his intestines burning. “There’s no way I will ever stop amusing myself with the memory of Enjolras, completely wasted and calling me his BFF. Literally never gonna happen.”

Grantaire has never told anyone, but that was also the night when Enjolras pressed his nose into Grantaire’s neck—so vulnerable, so delicate, Grantaire wanted to entwine their fingers together and whisper sweet nothings into Enjolras’ ear; and even if he for some mysterious reason had acted on that need, there’s no way he would admit it—and sighed in irritation.

“You smell like honey,” he blurted, sounding angry for some reason.

“It’s called mead,” Grantaire said because he was obviously an idiot. And to prove that he indeed was one, he raised his glass and took a huge sip of what was supposed to be mead, but tasted rather like maple juice spiked with tequila, and then shot a challenging look in Enjolras’ direction.

Enjolras opened his mouth—lips red and so very inviting—no doubt to shout at Grantaire for being an obnoxious drunkard, the irony of arguing this while completely pissed being lost on him, but then his face lost all colour and he hurried towards the bathrooms never to emerge again. Or at least Grantaire never saw him return, as he fell asleep on the table not long after.

There’s a moment of silence when Combeferre refills his glass with white wine and then offers some to Courfeyrac who obligingly reaches out and takes it from him.

“So,” he says, beaming at Grantaire for no reason. “When you two abruptly ended your courtship—“

“There was no courtship of any kind,” Grantaire interrupts him wistfully. “We argued, and then he felt sick. That’s pretty much what I call our usual interaction.”

“Whatever you say, _honey_ ,” Courfeyrac chuckles, and Grantaire freezes.

“How do you...?”

“Oh, _I was there_ ,” he admits, looking and sounding positively overjoyed. “He was adorable, wasn’t he? Pity he refuses to drink more often than not. I honestly thought you’d finally hit it off, but then he passed out in the bathroom, and when we finally revived him, we found you drooling onto the table. Let me tell you, it was mission impossible with you two that night!”

“I wasn’t drooling,” Grantaire protests because his mind refuses to process any of the other information provided. Were their friends trying to serve as their matchmakers? But that was surely doomed to fail, as Enjolras never expressed any interest in being paired with anyone, let alone Grantaire.

“As fun as it is listening about Grantaire’s ridiculous crush _again_ ,” Éponine interrupts, yawning, “please do get to the gist at some point tonight.”

And then it suddenly dawns on Grantaire that there indeed was a point to this story, and it was not his interaction with drunken Enjolras. Or at least he hopes that’s not the point, because it’d be plain cruel and not as funny as he expected.

“Ah, right, _the incident_ ,” Courfeyrac obliges. “Well, it all went smoothly after we finally managed to collect Enjolras from the floor and drag him home.”

“Actually it was Bahorel who did all the dragging, since, as I recall, you were too busy writing ‘Kiss me if you think I’m pretty’ on Enjolras’ forehead,” Combeferre supplies.

Courfeyrac’s smile only widens.

“With a permanent marker!” he shouts happily. “And it got him smooched dead!”

“Yes, by you,” Combeferre sighs, and Grantaire pretends to ignore a slight pinch of jealousy when he imagines Courfeyrac’s hands all over Enjolras who’s maybe, _maybe_ willing to permit it, just this once. Yes, he knows that they slept together right after lycée and then swore to never do it again, but with Courf’s charm and Enjolras’ passion... They’d make such a beautiful pair, reason be damned. “Anyway, we brought him home, and he was a picture of innocence, all gentle smiles and sheepish nods. We took off his boots and let him be, but when we came back to check on him after twenty minutes or so, he was gone.”

“Yeah, Combeferre almost had a heart attack. We organised a search party immediately, but couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“We were just about to call Javert and ask him for help, which I’m sure Enjolras would not thank us for in the morning, when we got a call from Marius.”

“Poor bastard was terrified.”

“Isn’t he always?” Éponine asks and it would sound cold, weren’t it for that broken moan she let out before speaking.

Courfeyrac just squeezes her hand quickly before continuing:

“He said he had been coming back home when he saw Enjolras standing in front of the mayor’s house.”

“Staggering more like.”

Enjolras. _Staggering._ Grantaire has to tighten his grip on the bottle he’s nursing. He’s never regretted drinking himself to sleep more than he does at this very moment.

“We got there as fast as we could, probably breaking at least a dozen traffic laws—“

“Not driving while drunk being one of them,” Combeferre says, his face suddenly very serious.

“Feuilly wasn’t drunk!”

“I saw him have a drink not an hour before that.”

“It was one drink!”

“Still, he wasn’t sober, was he?”

It sounds like an argument they had many times in the past, so Grantaire clears his throat and prompts:

“So... Enjolras.”

“Right,” Combeferre says.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac repeats, exhaling slowly. “We stepped out of the car, and there he was. Barefoot and with his forehead begging for kisses, shouting something about mismanaged housing policy and throwing water balloons at the mayor’s windows.”

There’s a ridiculous amount of warmth spreading across Grantaire’s chest when he dwells on that image. _That’s it_ , he thinks. _I will never be able to love anyone else as long as this arsehole walks the earth._

And then the warmth crawls further down, causing Grantaire to shift uncomfortably and drop his gaze before Courfeyrac or Éponine realise what he’s thinking.

“Wait,” Éponine says when she’s finished laughing hysterically, what feels like a good half an hour. “That doesn’t explain the condom thing.”

“Oh doesn’t it?” Courfeyrac wriggles his eyebrows pointedly.

And he’s the first one to burst out in laughter, the rest quickly follow.

“Stop it,” Éponine begs. “I can’t breathe!” 

“Why don’t we know that story?” Grantaire wants to know. “I can’t believe Courfeyrac was able to keep it a secret for such a long time! Or Bahorel for that matter. We fucking lived together for half a year after graduation!”

“Well, first of all,” Courfeyrac says, pouting, “I’m hurt. You hurt me deeply, R. Of course I can keep a secret! Second... we kind of made a pinky swear, poor Enjy was horrified, and I thought he deserved to be treated with respe—” he trails off when Éponine starts staring at him in disbelief. “Okay, Combeferre made me.”

Because of course he did. Combeferre is the scariest person Grantaire has ever met.

Combeferre just smiles like a content lion cub and sips his wine, not even trying to deny it. Grantaire takes a mental note never to get on his wrong side.

“We didn’t want the story to spread, you know how touchy Enjolras is about his image,” Combeferre explains. “But now he’s gone and I simply needed to think of some kind of punishment, so there. Enjoy.” And then, quieter: “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, excuse you me, I make no such promises,” Éponine says as she makes herself comfortable against Courfeyrac’s bedhead. “Now let’s talk business.”

They spend the following hour discussing Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet’s new girlfriend, which quickly turns into an unprompted ‘never have I ever’—and this is how they find out that Éponine too participated in a threesome once.

“No way!” Courfeyrac cries, even more astir than usual.

“Way,” she replies with a cunning smile. “Or a three–way, if you will.”

“How? When? Who? Was the other person a girl? Please tell me the other person was a girl!”

“You know ‘Parnasse...,” she says in lieu of a real answer, and Courfeyrac grimaces.

“I really, reaaally don’t. I met the bloke once, and I’m still trying to figure out what you saw in him.”

“Haven’t you heard? Apparently black souls attract.”

“Wow, that’s fucking deep, Ép. _Was the other person a girl?_ ”

“Oh, come on, Courfeyrac,” she hisses, annoyed. “Don’t be intentionally obtuse! Anyone who has ever laid eyes on Montparnasse knows he’s straight as an arrow.”

“Well, that helps me in no way as arrows confuse the shit out of me. I mean sure, they’re basically pretty non–complex shape–wise, but when it comes to the pointy head or fuzzy quill, I’m lost.” If looks could kill... Courfeyrac notices Éponine’s expression and realises he’s probably walking on thin ice here. “Okay, let me make it easier. Pontmercy straight or me straight?”

“Bahorel straight.”

“Whoa,” Courfeyrac cries. “Tough to beat.”

“Yeah.”

“Then... long story short, it _was_ a girl.”

“Oh, go to hell!”

Grantaire laughs. Combeferre frowns. Éponine stands up and opens the window, and then lights up a cigarette.

Everything seems so normal for them, so mundane.

But then there is this painful feeling of loss when Éponine is not told to ‘fucking go outside and not make them die of lung cancer’, when nobody scowls at Courfeyrac and orders him to stop nagging, when Combeferre’s eyes turn to meet another exasperated look, but the ugly armchair remains unoccupied.

Enjolras is undeniably gone.

And he will stay gone. He has another life now, another ‘mission’. He’ll keep in touch with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sure, maybe call Éponine a few times to ask her how everyone else is truly doing, because he knows she never beats around the bush (Combeferre and Courfeyrac would assure him all’s peachy, and when is it ever just that, really?), and he’ll of course invite Feuilly to Paris whenever he meets some interesting Polish activists (“He’s from Warsaw, you know, he actually lived there all his life and he’s just moved to France. He volunteers for Amnesty International, but he’s got his own business, too. You’ll love him!”). He’ll get in touch with Joly when he’s sick and with Bossuet when he’s sad, and he’ll sometimes need a contact from Bahorel, proofreading from Jehan, or a legal consultation with Marius...

What would he ever need from Grantaire, though? Except for maybe instructions on how not to puke on himself, which would still be kind of pointless because Enjolras consumes like three bottles of wine a year on average, and Grantaire has only seen him puke once—when he was pepper–sprayed right into his open mouth at a protest (if someone would assume that it shut him up, someone would be wrong).

“I need vodka,” he says and sounds tired even to his own ears.

God, they must find him pathetic.

“I have a great tea,” Combeferre replies delicately. “It got delivered yesterday, it’s white with rose petals, I could make some if you’re interested.”

Grantaire scratches his cheek, pretending to consider it, and finally just nods and says:

“I guess I can have my vodka with tea. Thanks, Combeferre, you’re a saint.”

They don’t watch ‘Out of Africa’ that evening, as Éponine threatens to strangle them if they try and make her. What the do watch is ‘Lion King’, which—if you ask Grantaire—is much, much more cruel.

\---

He comes back home depressed and deliciously drunk, a perfect mix which makes him fall asleep almost immediately. Enjolras is there in his dreams—of course he is, why would he leave Grantaire be just for this one night—he’s a lion prince who flies from his kingdom and goes to live in Paris. Grantaire cries himself to sleep when he finds out— _how could he, doesn’t he know we need him?_ —but then he gets angry. And weirdly motivated to do something about it.

Wait, is he?...

There’s a loud noise coming from under the bed. Grantaire moans and covers his head with a pillow, hoping it will stop eventually. It doesn’t.

Not opening his eyes, he reaches down and finds his phone vibrating like crazy. Is this an alarm clock? Do they even have alarm clocks in animal kingdom?

“Am I Nala?” he asks, having finally figured out what to do with a ringing phone, but not yet realising that ‘Am I Nala’ may not be the best way to answer it.

“I’m sorry?” The voice on the other side is definitely female, and much too breezy for this time of night. “Am I speaking to Mr. Grantaire?”

Grantaire reluctantly opens the second eye and squints at a number on the screen. It’s Parisian code.

“This is him,” he says slowly, although it comes out rather a hoarse bark than an actual response.

“Perfect!” the woman screams enthusiastically and wow, he really hates her right now. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“It’s the middle of the night, ma’am.”

“It’s eight o’clock.”

“My point stands.”

“Oh God, I’m so, so sorry!” And surprisingly, she does sound just that. Extremely apologetic. Maybe he could consider forgiving her in a year or two, once this throbbing headache goes away. “I can call later.”

_Parisian code_ , he reminds himself. _You might want to hear this._

“No, that’s okay,” he lies. “I was going to get up anyway.” In five to seven hours.

“Mr. Grantaire, I’m a business associate of one of your buyers, Mrs. Gervais.” The cat lady? Must be, as she’s not just ‘one of his buyers’, she’s been his only buyer this year. “I run a small gallery in Paris and I’d love to display some of your works. Would you be interested?”

She pauses as though she really expects him to vacillate. Yeah, like his answer could be anything else than...

“Hell yeah!” Now he’s fully awake, out of bed, and only mildly bothered by his hangover. Somebody wants his paintings—not in their living room, not in the attic, but on display! In an actual art gallery! The woman lets out an amused snort that could probably pass for a cough, but only barely, so he quickly manages to take a grip. “I mean... Of course, ma’am! Extremely interested!”

She doesn’t make a sound, but Grantaire is almost sure she’s smiling.

“Great. Let me schedule an appointment for... is Thursday fine?”

“Thursday sounds terrific!” He really should work on playing hard to get. “Wait,” he says as another thing occurs to him. “Will you need me to move to Paris?”

_Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes..._

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she assures him and then, having probably heard his embarrassing whimper: “Unless you want to?”

And guess what.


	2. ii. home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my Beta Reader, Riley (swedishmafiafish) - I am so grateful that you spared some time to look through this chapter!

When Grantaire steps out of the train at Gare de Lyon, he realises just how rushed his decision was.

He got so excited about relocating closer to Enjolras that he didn’t plan absolutely anything. He’s got some shitty hotel booked for two nights—the shower cabin abuts the bed on mere six square meters, and yet the room still costs fifty five euros a night. If he’s unable to find a place that’s at least slightly more presentable than a common shithole for considerably less than the French president’s salary—all preferably under forty eight hours—he’ll be forced to spend the following nights in a bar. Not really cheaper, if you consider alcohol prices in Parisian bars, but significantly more enjoyable.

He did of course instruct the gang to keep their mouths shut until he’s settled, which probably gives him two or three days before Courfeyrac cracks and blurts it all out to Enjolras—not in bad faith, naturally, but does it change anything? Grantaire has seventy two hours for preparing himself. _Tops._

Will Enjolras want to meet with him? Or will he just send a courtesy text welcoming Grantaire to Paris and wishing him good luck with all his future endeavours? Will he even acknowledge Grantaire’s presence?

The gallery opens in two weeks, which leaves him nothing to show for himself yet—in all truth he needn’t have moved before Friday the following week. Patience has never really been one of Grantaire’s virtues.

He sighs and throws the bag over his shoulder. The day is rather sunny—a rare sight in Paris this time of year. Grantaire almost gives in and lets his legs lead him further along the riverbank towards Notre–Dame—he loves Seine almost as much as he hated the mountains back south. He’s always considered himself a city boy. The streets of Paris twinkle with Christmas decorations which, sure, may be somewhat tacky, but Grantaire can’t help it—the very sight almost immediately makes him hungry for chestnuts.

The instinct, however, wins. Not fifteen minutes later he finds himself hurrying in a familiar direction. Last time he visited Paris, he was still a student, but he remembers every little street he wandered about, every shady tavern he stumbled upon, every crack in the pavement, every building, every wall covered with angry anarchist slogans... All about Paris shouted: “Stay!”, but his heart belonged to Provence.

Now he knows it wasn’t Provence that kept him away. And he can finally admit—Paris is home. It’s been home since Grantaire saw it for the first time seven years ago.

It just didn’t have Enjolras in it then.

He passes the Panthéon, manoeuvring between crowds floating down the street—who knew it’d be so packed with people in December? Grantaire crosses the street and finds himself in front of the Café Musain. You can see the entrance to the Luxembourg Garden from the main room, where Grantaire chooses to sit by the table closest to the window. Until now he has never stayed there, as there’s another room at the end of a long corridor, space full of Grantaire’s most cherished memories. They used to hang out there all the time one summer when Combeferre signed them all up for an event called ‘democracy workshops’, which Grantaire attended solely because it allowed him to gape at Enjolras all day long without being too obvious. It was later pointed out to him that he had been nothing short of obvious, fortunately though—Enjolras hadn’t noticed. No one except their party were allowed in the room—apparently Bahorel ‘knew some guy’. He usually did.

“Grantaire?!” he hears a surprised voice and turns.

The waitress is smiling at him gleefully. She’s got long, honey–gold hair and big brown eyes. Grantaire remembers her as a girl who used to have an enormous crush on Courfeyrac—Floréal was her name?

“Oh, hi Floréal,” he says with a smile. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

“So, what’s up with you these days? Are you staying in Paris for long?”

“I don’t wanna jinx it or anything, but hopefully indefinitely.”

“Oh, fantastic! I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you then.” She offers him a menu which he doesn’t really need—he knows exactly what he’s going to order—but he takes it from her anyway. Floréal lingers for a few seconds, and then asks seemingly indifferently: “Are your friends going to be joining you?”

And it saddens him, because they are not. He left them and went chasing his dreams—the art and Enjolras—not even sure if either of those dreams had a chance to be realised.

“It’s just me,” he murmurs, tossing the menu aside. “I’ll have Irish coffee, please. And Floréal? Make it twice as Irish. In other words—limit the _coffee_ part to a minimum.”

She just smiles and nods. That’s why Grantaire likes this place so much.

When Floréal comes back with his coffee five minutes later, she looks concerned.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks. “A muffin, a sandwich, advice?”

He briefly considers dismissing her with a polite handwave, but eventually settles for dressing his misery in a grim joke: “I don’t know, could you maybe point me to some bridges that are comfortable to sleep under?”

Grantaire takes a sip of his coffee and notes that it’s deliciously high–voltage. Floréal frowns.

“I don’t understand. Are you looking for a flat?”

“A flat, a room, a box... Anything really, I’m not picky.”

She starts rummaging through her pockets, and after a minute or so finally finds a phone. A few agile taps later she grabs Grantaire’s arm.

“Call this number,” she says whilst scribbling something on his wrist. “I know this girl from jujitsu, she’s super dope. I met with her the other day for a beer and she mentioned some guy, her boyfriend I think, who was looking for a flatmate. You should start there. And even if he’s already found someone else, Cosette’s father owns the whole building, they should be able to offer you an affordable place.”

Grantaire struggles to find words—a rare occurrence for him.

“Are you serious?” he asks and honestly, he should probably call Enjolras and straight up confess his undying love, considering how lucky he’s been with this Paris thing so far.

Floréal just smiles.

“Call Cosette. Good luck!”

She’s only a few steps away when Grantaire starts frantically pressing the numbers on the phone screen. Being lucky never applied to him in any way, so this must be a glitch in the system. He’s not going to let it fly from his grip.

_”Hello?”_ The voice on the receiving end is cheery and warm, and does nothing short of boosts Grantaire’s excitement.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “I got your number from Floréal, you know, from the Musain? I just moved here and I’m looking for a decent place to rent. Reportedly you may know a person who’s looking for, well, me.”

_”Oh, I see,"_ the girl answers in a sweet tone which never sounds truly honest, but in her case it does. Grantaire feels strangely reassured. _“Are you a nice person?”_

He hesitates.

“I don’t think so, personally. I’m grumpy and moody, overly melodramatic at times. Weirdly enough, my friends tend to dig that.”

Cosette laughs at his confession.

_”We’ve dealt with much worse, believe me. Are you an actor?”_

“A painter.”

_”Well, then you have the right to be melodramatic. I’m sure it makes you good at what you do.”_

“I’d like to believe it.”

_”Just a few routine questions. I guess it’s safe to rule out the usual faults of human nature, right? You’re not a murderer, a rapist, a—"_ she gasps with horror _”—right–winger?”_

“That I am, indeed, not.”

_“Workaholic?”_

“Not once was I accused of that.”

_”Good, I already know one too many,”_ she laughs. _“Favourite cake?”_

“Why?”

_”Just curious.”_

“I’m afraid I’d have to say Napoleon.”

_”In my personal opinion—yummy! Just don’t mention this to your future flatmate and you’re golden. Are you an activist?”_

Grantaire thinks of all the Les Amis meetings—he never missed any. Every protest, every lecture, every sleepless night... He always came and not once for the right reason.

“No,” he admits straightforwardly.

_“Don’t worry, you will be once we’re done with you!” Cosette answers with a chortle. “Listen, since Floréal gave you my number, she must think you’re a decent person, and in my book that’s the best possible recommendation. I take it you’re okay with sharing?”_

“I’m okay with anything that saves me some money.”

_”We’re on the same page then. The flat isn’t big, but it’s cosy. It’s got two bedrooms, so you guys wouldn’t get in each other’s hair all the time. I’m afraid there won’t be much room for your painting, but you could always do it in the attic, we hardly ever use it anyway.”_

“When can I see it?”

_”How’s now?”_

“Give me an address and I’ll be there in five. Or, you know, fifty five, if you don’t live within three–hundred–metre radius from the Panthéon.”

_”Oh, you’re near the Panthéon? It’s like twenty–minute walk from there!”_

Is he the luckiest person today or what?

He downs his coffee, not exactly minding that he’ll meet Cosette and her boyfriend smelling of whisky. That’s the one thing they should prepare themselves for before letting him share their space. He leaves a twenty–euro note on the table—more than twice as much as the coffee cost, but Floréal deserves a big tip for what she did for Grantaire.

It’s already dark outside by the time he leaves. Paris glows and so does Grantaire’s face, probably. He barely refrains from stopping strangers in the street and hugging them. _What the hell happened to him today?_

He arrives at his destination even sooner than Cosette predicted. The building turns out to be an old town house, a well–kept architectural gem. There are small sculptures over the main entrance, and a sentence in Latin carved in stone right above them. He could try and decipher it, but who is he kidding, his Latin stinks.

He’s always considered himself more a philosopher than a linguist.

The door is open, so Grantaire lets himself in. A well–lit corridor leads up to a spiral staircase—everything painted in white and light–blue, cleaner than some hospitals. He feels both extremely unfitting and a part of a whole, and the latter scares him.

He comes to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly nervous.

Does he really deserve to be here? He, a rugged presence mixed with a strong odour of alcohol and sweat—he’d been almost running the whole time—unshaven, visibly exhausted, panting...

He imagines Cosette as a ray of light. Won’t he just cast a gloomy shadow over her joyful self?

_It’s either here or in the streets, you idiot_ , he tells himself and starts climbing up the stairs. He’s heart is racing as though it knows something that is still hidden from Grantaire.

He finds the right door and knocks.

At first nothing happens—there isn’t any sound coming from the other side—but after half a minute or so someone finally pulls the door open and Grantaire finds himself in the presence of the most beautiful human on earth—head crowned with golden locks of hair, piercing blue eyes, lips more tempting than a basket of raspberries... He feels like a beggar approaching an angel so radiant and mesmerising that Grantaire barely withholds a sudden need to bow.

“Grantaire?” the angel says, disbelieving.

But Grantaire cannot bring himself to speak.

“Grantaire, what are you doing here?” Enjolras insists, not taking his eyes off Grantaire’s face and, well, that’s unfortunate since Grantaire’s face isn’t something that should be looked at, especially now, especially by Enjolras.

They would stand like that for hours with Enjolras’ expression growing more and more annoyed and Grantaire’s—more stunned, if it weren’t for a girl who shouts from inside the flat:

“Is that the melodramatic artist guy? Let him in!”

Enjolras frowns and steps aside.

“The melodramatic artist? Well, I guess he happens to be like that from time to time. But mostly a cynical chatterbox with an attitude.”

And incredibly—he smiles.

Grantaire finally lets out a breath and forces himself to enter the flat. His brain refuses to cooperate. _This cannot be happening_ , he keeps repeating himself. _It must be one of those weird, disturbingly realistic dreams I sometimes have._

The inside is much bigger than Cosette advertised it. He’s standing right in the middle of a spacious, uncluttered living room with two huge windows—they’re facing south–west which must make the room unbearably hot in summer, but now is probably not a good time to dwell on that—there’s also a small kitchenette on his right, and the corridor behind the bathroom door must lead to the bedrooms.

“Hi, I’m Cosette.” A petite blonde stands up from the couch and shakes Grantaire’s hand. She’s the cutest thing he's ever seen in his life, and her voice is sweeter than a lark’s song, but there’s also something unsettling in her eyes, like she knows all your secrets and can read your thoughts. “So I gather you guys know each other?”

She puts her hand on Enjolras’ arm and beams at Grantaire, but all he can feel is an increasing pain in his chest.

He didn’t know that Enjolras liked girls. He wasn’t even sure if Enjolras liked _anybody_.

Those were simpler times.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he finally replies, his voice still a bit stifled. “And Enjolras...” he doesn’t dare to look Enjolras in the eyes, “I had no idea.”

“Again, what are you doing here?” Enjolras repeats, and he doesn’t sound angry or irritated, just surprised.

Grantaire tilts his head and sighs.

“There’s this gallery here, they called last week and asked for my paintings. I could probably manage it from home, but given that I’ve sold a total of one painting this year, I really felt like I needed to dive in head first. It’s now or never, you know.”

And right now he kind of wishes it was ‘never’.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he admits with all the honesty he can muster. “The opening isn’t until the next weekend, I can still fail and be forced to go back, I truly don’t need witnesses of my demise.”

“It’s your lucky day, my friend, since you’ve just gained two future witnesses of your success,” Cosette says and takes his bag from him. “So what do you say? Interested? I can show you your bedroom.”

“I’m not sure whether I can afford it,” Grantaire groans because of course he can’t, and even if he could... Living in such close proximity to Enjolras would probably kill him.

How exactly did he go from not having seen him or heard from him in a month to considering an offer to _move in with him_ in less than an hour?!

“Of course you can.” Surprisingly, it’s Enjolras who says that. Wait, does he _want_ Grantaire to move in? “The rent is very moderate. Cosette’s father cares more about _who_ lives here than how much they are prepared to pay.”

“Doesn’t that diminish his profit margin and defy the very institution of capitalism as a whole? That doesn’t seem like a smart way to run a business. No offence, but how exactly can he afford this standpoint?”

“Daddy has a number of other businesses,” Cosette says lightly. “There are some things more important than money.”

“Not in business,” Grantaire insists. “Sure, he can be all Father Christmas and shit, but sooner or later he’s going to run out of funds. What will happen to your precious tenants then?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly fervent yet naïve, but Cosette raises her hand and smiles.

“I suppose you’ll have to confront him about it directly, since neither of us are his business advisers,” she says simply and it shuts him up, which surprises both Enjolras and Grantaire himself. “Now about the vacancy...”

Grantaire casts a glance at Enjolras.

“Why do you even need a flatmate anyway? Aren’t you loaded?”

“What’s with you and the money today?” Enjolras asks and he finally sounds a little annoyed. _Good, neutral ground._ “My parents are well-off, yes, but being their son doesn’t automatically entitle me to their wealth.”

“That’s literally the definition of inheritance law.”

“Well, I think it’s preposterous.”

“You’re full of these little revolutionary ideals, aren’t you?” And even though Grantaire intends this remark to be ridiculing, it comes out adoring. He can feel Cosette’s heedful gaze, but he doesn’t turn.

Enjolras scowls at him and asks: “And this is news to you since when exactly?”

“Touché.”

“Listen, Grantaire,” he sighs and Grantaire bristles because ninety nine percent of their fights start with Enjolras’ ‘listen’, but his head gets a little dizzy at the same time because he’ll never be tired of just how intoxicating it is to hear his own name vibrating at the end of Enjolras’ tongue, “I think you should stay here. If you want to, that is.”

“Do _you_ want me to?” _And more importantly—why?_

“I do. I miss home, and you’re home to me." Enjolras pauses, then adds, “In a way,” almost as an afterthought.

Grantaire blinks. He thinks Cosette may be saying something, time may still be passing, there may even be life on earth beside him and Enjolras standing here in this flat in Croulebarbe. He just doesn’t want to acknowledge any of these facts.

You’re home to me.

_You’re home to me._

After what feels like eternity he tries and focus his attention back on reality. Enjolras’ expression remains indifferent, as though he has no idea what he said or what it did to Grantaire’s heart. Typical.

“Grantaire,” Cosette says in a delicate tone, and she sounds like she understood the situation perfectly. _Well isn’t he fucked._ “I asked if you wanted to see your bedroom.”

He nods because, if he's being honest, there is no way in hell he’d ever decline an offer to move in with Enjolras, however hard he pretends to mull over it.

And it’s going to be the most beautiful, craziest, most nerve–racking time of his life, that’s for sure.

Cosette approaches him and slightly nudges him towards the corridor. Grantaire follows her sheepishly, taking one last look at Enjolras who’s waving his hand in encouragement, but apart from that doesn’t move.

Cosette opens the door, and Grantaire finds himself in a tiny yet quite comfortably furnished room with long willow–green curtains and a bed with what looks like a thousand pillows on it. It’s so obviously non–Grantaire, but Grantaire is nothing if not a chameleon, he can easily adjust. Cosette, reading his mind _again_ , grins.

“I knew you’d be willing to give this a chance!”

“I haven’t said ‘yes’, Cosette.”

“You haven’t said ‘no’, either.”

“You don’t think I’ll be a nuisance?” _Seeing that I’m in love with your boyfriend and all that._

“I think you’ll fit in just fine with us.”

And there it is, _’us’_.

Definitely not the ‘us’ Grantaire thinks about when he imagines Enjolras in a relationship.

Suddenly he feels the urge to know—so strong that he cannot contain it anymore. He tries to look as nonchalant as possible when he asks: “So how long have you two been together?”

“Together?” she repeats sweetly. “Oh dear, we’re not together.” It would be a huge understatement to say that he is flooded by relief. Grantaire can’t explain why exactly hearing this makes him so happy—it’s not like it makes his chances on the mutual attraction front more realistic—but it does. “Although I can see why you’d think so. When I first met him, I was certainly open to anything less... platonic.” Grantaire’s heart sinks again. Enough with this roller-coaster already! Don’t people know that artists have very fragile souls? “That’s it, however,” she adds, lowering her voice so much that Grantaire has to lean towards her to hear the rest of the sentence, “I realised we’re not cut from the same cloth, he and I. Do I like him? Yes. Am I attracted to him? I mean, who isn’t? But I’m not very deep in it and I will never act on it, especially now that I’ve met you.”

Yet another spasm.

“What do you mean?”

_She means that everyone can smell your desperation from a thousand kilometres, you loon._

“Don’t worry, it’s not my secret to tell. I just want you to believe me when I say this. Enjolras and I are just friends, okay?”

Unable to form an audible sentence, Grantaire nods.

“Oh, I should warn you, though—“ Cosette begins, but is interrupted by Enjolras who chooses this very moment to enter the scene again.

“If you need more bookshelves, you’ll find some in the attic. I overestimated just how cluttered my bedroom can get,” he says with a shrug. “Where’s the rest of your luggage anyway?”

“I didn’t bring anything else,” Grantaire admits. “Not getting my hopes up, remember? Ép will take the rest the next time she’s in town to visit Azelma and Gavroche.”

Enjolras casts a quick glance at the bag that Cosette is still holding for Grantaire. “If you need anything, just ask. And, you know...,” he hesitates for a second, “...make yourself at home.”

_You’re home to me._

Grantaire smiles. That he will.

Cosette hands him a set of keys, explains that if he needs her, he’ll find her upstairs, and then pushes Enjolras out and closes the door behind them. Grantaire is left alone. “To unpack”, she said, but what he truly needs is a minute to collect his thoughts.

He briefly considers calling someone, Bahorel maybe, since he’s the only one of his friends who wouldn’t make it sound like a big deal, but cannot force himself to share this just yet.

The last hour has been a constant high–pitched sound in his ears, now getting less obtrusive by a minute. Grantaire is finally able to analyse his situation—and that’s not exactly ideal, either, because Grantaire has never been famous for his cold–assessment skills. 

He unlocks his phone. There’s a network called ‘Red and black’, but it’s password–protected. He tries a few offensive combinations just to be spiteful—‘lepenforpresident’, ‘climatechangeisalie’, ‘makefrancegreatagain’—and then simply connects to some free city wi–fi with shitty signal. Cancelling his hotel booking seems mundane enough, so he won’t be too stuck on—

Enjolras.

He’s going to _live_ with Enjolras.

(Who is not at all in a relationship with a stunning blonde named Cosette, but does it really matter?)

(Yes. Yes, it does.)

Enjolras who stupidly admitted that he missed Grantaire—which meant nothing, as he didn’t even blink, or blush, or look away, but Grantaire keeps coming back to those words constantly, unable to calm his heart.

The phone in Grantaire’s hand buzzes violently, which makes him shoot up and drop it.

It buzzes again several times, dancing all over the floor, before Grantaire finally leans down and picks it up.

It seems that he’s been texted by most of his friends—turns out news travels fast.

  


**Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM**  
omg you’re efficient! go fetch him, you dog!

  


**Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM**  
who’s a good boy?

  


**Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM**  
no but in all seriousness-how the hell did that happen?!

  


**Éponine, 6:06 PM**  
explain

  


**Joly, 6:06 PM**  
Congratulations on finding a flat! Didn’t know E was looking for a flatmate. B says hi! We miss you! :(((

  


Grantaire decides to ignore Courfeyrac, and he’s too scared of Éponine to deal with her message now, so he hits ‘reply’ under Joly’s text.

  


**You, 6:07 PM**  
you know that it was me who came by in the morning to borrow your bag, right?

  


**You, 6:07 PM**  
hi Bossuet!

  


**Joly, 6:08 PM**  
So what, we’re not allowed to miss you after only several hours? Maybe we want to do it in advance, we won’t see you in an awfully long time :)

  


**You, 6:08 PM**  
no no, by all means, miss away! btw how did you find out?

  


**Joly, 6:09 PM**  
E called Ferre to express his disappointment that there are secrets between them. We’re hanging out at C &C’s, drama drama

  


Oh great, now Enjolras is angry with Combeferre, all because of Grantaire. Well, not ‘angry’ maybe, but everyone knows what it means when Enjolras, wearing his flagship expression, says: “I’m disappointed in you.”

It means that the confronted individual will never experience joy again, that they’ve been marked as unworthy by a deity itself. Or at least this is how Grantaire used to feel every time Enjolras so much as looked at him funny.

He deliberates for a minute before texting Combeferre.

  


**You, 6:12 PM**  
sorry I caused you trouble

  


Not five minutes pass before he gets a reply.

  


**Combeferre, 6:17 PM**  
You didn’t. Enjolras knows perfectly well that being his friend doesn’t automatically oblige me to spill other people’s secrets. He wouldn’t respect me any other way. You surprised him, that’s all. I’m of course very happy that everything worked out fine for you accommodation–wise. We were worried. Take care, okay?

  


Ah, whatever they would do without Combeferre’s collected self?

Grantaire feels he should change his clothes, maybe even take a shower before facing Enjolras again, but he also needs a cigarette. Badly.

He swithers as to whether he should try and slip past Enjolras’ bedroom unnoticed, and after a few minutes of nervously walking back and forth the room he eventually decides to do just that. Enjolras’ door is closed, so Grantaire congratulates himself on an easy victory. Needless to say—prematurely.

“It’s a non–smoking building,” Enjolras grunts from the living–room floor where he is sitting surrounded by piles of documents, looking at the pack of cigarettes in Grantaire’s hand with a raised eyebrow.

God, he always sounds so righteous when he says shit like that.

“Well, I’m a yes–smoking person, how do we overcome this stalemate?”

Enjolras sighs—a sound that makes unimaginable damage to Grantaire’s abdomen.

“There’s an alcove just outside the building to the left. I don’t think the smoke will bother anyone there.”

And he goes back to paging through the thickest book Grantaire has ever seen in his life, hardcover edition of ‘War and Peace’ included.

It’s already pitch–black outside—damn you, December—and the only source of light in the living room is a small lamp over Enjolras’ head. He looks so delicate right now, almost childlike. Grantaire huffs in irritation and puts his cigarettes back into his pocket.

He crosses the room in three long steps and takes a seat on the floor in front of Enjolras who scowls at him.

“Can I help you with anything?”

Grantaire smiles, unfazed. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this right. There will be no ignoring each other politely from day one. Wasn’t Enjolras the one to invite Grantaire to stay?

“What’s up with you, Enjolras? I haven’t seen you in over a month.”

Enjolras shrugs.

“Not much,” he says, pointing at the piled up files. “Snowed under, as usual.”

“Any new causes worth dying for?”

“Nothing is worth dying for,” Enjolras answers gravely and Grantaire raises a brow. “Well, not in a civilised world anyway.” Grantaire just keeps looking at him doubtfully until Enjolras finally surrenders. “Many causes worth getting arrested for, though,” he admits with a small smile.

“That’s the Enjolras I know and—“ _love_. He almost says _love_.

Grantaire can feel his face heating up, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to have noticed the uncomfortable pause, only partly engaged in his conversation with Grantaire.

All the papers around him are full of legal jargon, but when Grantaire leans closer, he can see that it’s not yet another work file open on Enjolras’ laptop, as Grantaire previously presumed. It’s Netflix.

“Hey, you’re watching ‘Friends’!” he cries. “You’re human after all!”

Enjolras’ head snaps up, as he tries to focus his attention back on Grantaire.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I promised someone I’d give the show another chance.”

“And?”

“I hate it.”

Grantaire goggles at him, astonished.

“How can you hate “Friends’?! Are you ill or something? Do you hate puppies, too?”

“I don’t hate puppies,” Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes. “But I do hate this show. It’s sexist, slightly homophobic, and more than a little dense at times.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says gently, “it’s a sitcom from the nineties. _Of course_ it’s sexist and homophobic, this is not why people love it.”

“I take it you’re one of those people then.”

Grantaire raises both hands.

“Guilty as charged. No, seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with humanity? I mean a good half of the jokes are based on how _feminine_ or how _gay_ someone acts, as if these two words were the most offensive insults.”

“Again, _a sitcom from the nineties._ And yet what you get is a clear image of three strong, independent women and three guys, neither of them conventionally _manly_ , whatever the hell that means.”

“It’s not the general image that bothers me. It’s everything in–between.”

“Enjolras, it’s a show about the importance of friendship. _Hence the title._ Are you like... opposed to it on principle or something?”

Enjolras groans and closes the book he’s been holding.

“No, I simply don’t like it. Am I not allowed to have opinions on television shows now?”

“Am I not allowed to disagree?” Grantaire counters.

They look at each other, breathing hard, and then Enjolras jumps to his feet.

“I think I’m running late to a meeting,” he says, collecting the documents from the floor. “There isn’t much food in the fridge, I’m afraid, but there are a few great takeaway places in the area. You’ll find their menus pinned to a wall up there.”

And then he disappears in the bathroom for a good half an hour.

When Grantaire begins to suspect that this supposed ‘meeting’ was just a lie fashioned to brush him off, there’s knocking at the door.

Enjolras is still in the bathroom, so Grantaire gets up and opens it.

“Hi,” a man says, smiling at him tentatively. “Is Enjolras home?”

He’s tall, with light–brown hair and a beard—handsome, if one’s into the ‘sexy librarian’ type. Grantaire flinches. Is Enjolras into the ‘sexy librarian’ type? He fights the need to close the door in the guy’s face, instead he smiles and invites him in.

“He’s still in the shower. Or dead, you know, because it’s been like an hour,” he offers. “Is he expecting you?”

“God, I hope so, as he is the one who invited me to this thing.” _What thing?_ “And you must be his new flatmate. Grantaire, is it? I’m Victor.”

The guy— _Victor_ —stretches out his hand and Grantaire shakes it reluctantly. How the hell did he find out about him so quickly? Did Enjolras send a mass text to all of his contacts?

“Ah, Victor,” Enjolras says, clean–shaven and obviously not dead, getting out of the bathroom. “Let me grab my jacket and I’m ready to go.”

Grantaire wouldn’t bet his life on it, but he’s almost certain he can smell Enjolras’ cologne.

“It was nice to meet you, Grantaire,” Victor says, retreating towards the door.

“We’re going out,” Enjolras informs Grantaire matter–of–factly and grabs his keys from the kitchen table. “If you encounter any problems settling in, Cosette should be home tonight.”

And with that—he’s gone.

Grantaire just sits there and blinks for a solid minute. _Who the hell was that? What did Enjolras mean by his ‘we’re going out’ declaration? Was he talking about the literal motion of leaving the flat, or was it like “we’re dating’ thing? Is this what Cosette wanted to warn him about before Enjolras barged in?_

“Fuck it, I need a drink,” he mutters, suddenly very lonely in the dark flat.

He goes back to the Musain and orders a double shot of whisky, first of... who knows how many.

His vision is a little blurred by the time his phone buzzes.

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:49 PM**  
why does no one ever reply to my texts

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:49 PM**  
i’m lovable. am i not lovable, r?

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:50 PM**  
r

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:51 PM**  
R!!!

  


And that’s it, he cannot take it any longer—he has to know. Whatever the answer, he _has to_ know.

  


**You, 9:52 PM**  
does Enjolras have a byofriend?

  


The reply doesn’t come for another three minutes, and Grantaire is holding his breath almost the whole time. When his phone finally buzzes again, he jumps up and nearly throws it into his drink.

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:55 PM**  
we’re not really sure

  


He can almost hear Courf’s concerned voice.

  


**Courfeyrac, 9:56 PM**  
you wanna talk? i can call you

  


**You, 9:57 PM**  
nah thats ok. tired anwyay. jst wanted to knwo

  


Grantaire turns off his phone and orders another whisky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the story - if so, please let me know! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading this!


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